Paper Umbrellas
by FriedEggry
Summary: A brief glimpse into the domestic life of Marik and Bakura. Mostly one-shots. Thiefshipping heavily implied, although rarely acted upon.


Welcome one and all to the first chapter.

This story is the result of many texting conversations between my roommate and I. We have based it heavily off of Little Kuriboh's Abridged series, as well as Marik Plays Bloodlines. It will simply be little snippets into the life of Marik and Bakura. Most chapters will be one-shots, but I may be forced into doing a couple double chapters for the sake of a good story. Oh, and there is definitely some Thiefshipping going on here-I find sexual tension to be thrilling. ;)

Thank you for stopping by. I hope you will have a fun ride.

Disclaimer: I don't own Yu-Gi-Oh. I also take no credit for the Abridged jokes. But I do bow in respect to the creators of both.

* * *

**Paper Umbrellas**

**Chapter 1**: Drunken Revelry

"Hey, Bakura."

"..."

"Hey, _Bakura!_"

"_What?!_"

"Bail bonds! Ahahahahaha!"

"All right, that is _it._" Slamming his newspaper on the coffee table, the white-haired thief rose from the couch and stalked out of the room. He returned only a moment later, tugging on a pair of sneakers.

"What? Where are you going?" His roommate, who was the source of his immense irritation, quickly pulled off his headphones when he spotted Bakura preparing to leave. "I wasn't being _that_ loud!"

"I am going out for a drink, Marik," Bakura snapped in reply. "I cannot stand to be in an enclosed area with you for another minute. If I hear 'bail bonds' or 'foxy boxes' one more time, I am shoving my knife into your computer!" Cramming his wallet into his pocket, he paused to give the Egyptian a piercing glare. "You would be better off not following me this time."

Marik stared innocently at him for a brief moment. Then a grin tugged at his lips. "Hehe. Foxy boxes."

With a growl, Bakura slammed the door shut behind himself. He'd had more than enough of his roommate.

"What the bloody hell is his problem today?! He usually isn't _this_ annoying." Tucking his hands into his pockets, Bakura slowly trudged down the stairs.

Marik had indeed been in rare form that day. Their morning was spent discussing his latest evil plan, which involved naming several carrier pigeons Steve. The plan was asinine at best, but the only way Bakura was able to convince Marik to drop the plan was by threatening Mr. Tweetums, his beloved pet bird. Marik had left in a huff worthy of a teenage girl after that.

Unfortunately, the peace had not lasted long. Marik had returned an hour later, acting quite odd. Bakura later discovered, after Marik had garbled some nonsense about his head being a cantaloupe, that the Egyptian had somehow gotten high in his sixty-minute sojourn. And never one to deny himself of a mind-altering substance, Bakura demanded Marik share his stash. This grew into a loud altercation about the trade of Marik's drug for Bakura's Cheetos. Marik ended up stealing and consuming the entire bad of Cheetos, then feigned innocence when Bakura insisted he receive his recompense.

Marik spent the rest of the day coming down, which meant he was parked in his desk chair and playing his vampire computer game. This issue with this was that Marik hardly paused for breath as he played. A constant monologue about the game's events assaulted Bakura's ears. The only thing that interrupted Marik's prattle were his own piercing screams when the 'demonic Shakira' or 'the ghost of Mel Gibson' appeared on the screen. Bakura's headache pounded harder just thinking about it.

For the most part, he enjoyed living with Marik, but there were some days that became absolutely unbearable. He was a thief by nature—he preferred the dark stillness of night, where all sounds were muffled and all movement was cloaked in shadow. Thus, living with a hyperactive man who ended every sentence with an exclamation point tended to wear down Bakura's patience after a while.

It was due to such days when Marik's obnoxious behavior grew overbearing that Bakura had discovered a bar just a couple of blocks away. He had sought solace there on many occasions. Marik, unable to spend more than twenty minutes alone, had quickly adopted the habit of following the thief. However, Bakura found this did not bother him much. The bar had one section set aside for dancing and another set for drinking. As Marik had never been one to ignore the music's pull, this gave Bakura nearly a solid hour to guzzle alcohol before he had to deal with his roommate again. It was plenty of time to drown his temper in liquor and for Marik to burn off his excess energy. By the time they stumbled home, they were thick as...well, thieves.

_It would appear tonight will be no exception,_ Bakura thought, a scowl pinching his face when he realized Marik was jogging to catch up with him.

"Hey, Bakura! I'm following you!"

Sneering over his shoulder, Bakura replied, "Oh, is that what you were doing? I thought you were staring at my ass."

"What?! Don't be ridiculous, I'm not gay!"

"Of course you aren't, Marik." Bakura was not in the mood to play with that topic of conversation right now. It was one of his favorite pastimes, teasing Marik about his sexual preferences. However, the Egyptian's voice tended to grow rather shrill in his indignation, and that would not help Bakura's headache at all. What would help was alcohol, and so he was quite relieved to see they had arrived at the bar.

"Now look, are you going to come in with me, or are you going to blather to yourself here on the sidewalk?"

"Hm..." Marik rubbed his chin and peered into the windows. "Is this the place that has dancing and those drinks with the little umbrellas in them?"

Declining to make a snide comment about the fact that they had been here countless times before, Bakura simply rolled his eyes and said, "Yes, Marik, there is dancing. And I will make certain your Fuzzy Navel has an umbrella."

A bright smile lit up his roommate's face. "Excellent! For a drink that has no umbrella shall never pass these lips! Come, Bakura! We must infiltrate this bar immediately!" He led the way in with far more enthusiasm than his cohort.

After flashing their Ids to the stone-faced bouncer with an impressively pointy hairdo, the pair made their way to the bar. Bakura, much to Marik's chagrin, opted for a stool far away from the dance floor. The music was pulsing a little too loudly for his taste. As Marik stared longingly at the mass of bodies gyrating to the beat, Bakura knew he wouldn't remain at the bar for long.

"A whiskey sour for me, and a Fuzzy Navel for this wanker," Bakura snapped shortly when the bartender glanced their way.

"With an umbrella!" Marik quickly shouted, lest the bartender prepare his drink minus the essentials.

"Yes, yes, an umbrella in the Fuzzy Navel," Bakura repeated, massaging his temples with the palm of his hand. He was at least grateful the Fuzzy Navel was a cocktail of minimal ingredients—the faster it was to make, the sooner he'd get his whiskey sour.

For a few moments, the pair sat in silence. Marik was incredibly fidgety, toying with his earrings and the chain on his shirt until the bartender at last dropped off their drinks. He then took one sip of his orange-tinted cocktail before rounding on his roommate. "Bakura! We have _got_ to go dance! The music compels me!"

The thief, who had been savoring a luxuriating mouthful of whiskey, swallowed and then heaved a sigh. "You know I don't dance, Marik." This was true, of course. Out of the dozens of times they had frequented the bar, Marik had yet to be successful in getting Bakura off the bar stool. Not that Bakura could remember, at any rate. Some memories were a little fuzzy.

"Oh, please! They're playing our jam!"

"We don't have a jam."

"But this is the best song ever written about a man who doesn't know how to set an alarm clock! It's so beautiful!"

"Look, if you love it so bloody much, then _you_ go dance and sing and make a fool of yourself! But _I _am not leaving this bar stool! Understand?!"

A little surprised by the outburst, but quite used to his temper before he'd consumed a couple of drinks, Marik simply laughed and hopped down from the stool. "Have it your way, Fluffy. You won't be able to resist the power forever! Ahahaha!" And he was gone, melting into the sea of bodies and loud music.

With a snort, Bakura turned back to his drink and took another long swallow. With any luck, Marik would be on the dance floor long enough for Bakura to rack up a decent bar tab. Intoxication was the only way of surviving such a trying day with Marik, and the thief wasn't about to abandon the tried-and-true strategy.

oOoOoOoOo

"Ahh... That was amazing!" Marik flopped down on the stool next to his roommate and wiped sweaty bangs from his eyes. "Whew! I just wish those smelly girls would keep their hands off my midriff. Look, but don't touch. That's what I always say, right Bakura? ...Bakura?"

"Mm? Oh, yes. Of course. Everybody knows that." Bakura seemed to have mellowed somewhat in Marik's absence. He didn't have the pinched scowl that adorned his face from their arrival, his cheeks were noticeably warm, and his eyes held the tell-tale rheum of drunkenness. It was safe to say that Marik would survive spending some time in his presence now.

"Ha! Everybody except those stupid girls," Marik agreed, spinning around on his stool so he faced the bar. "You should beat them up, Bakura. They were ruining my dancing groove. And all who ruin my dancing must be punished! Ooh, I know! I shall sneak into their bathroom and lock all the stall doors! That way they shall have to leave the bar to go pee-tinkle, and I shall have the dance floor all to myself! Well, myself and the other men."

With a small sigh, Bakura rested his chin in his hand. "As much as I approve you standing up for yourself, locking the stalls in the loo would not stop them for long. A few minutes, at best. Some slim and relatively sober woman could simply slip under the door and unlock it."

Aghast that his evil scheme was so quickly dismantled, Marik pouted for a brief moment before brightening once more. "But it would at least plunge the ladies room into chaos for a little while. And _that_ is truly evil!"

Rolling his eyes, Bakura drained his whiskey sour. His drinks seemed to be disappearing rather quickly this evening. "Yes, Marik. A few minutes of crossed legs will send the world crumbling down. Very good work indeed."

"Hmph!" The sarcasm was so thick in the thief's voice that even Marik picked up on it. Poking him in a very annoying manner, Marik's grating singing voice soon assaulted Bakura's ears. "Every party has a pooper, that's why they invited you—_Hey, who drank my Fuzzy Navel?!_"

The cry was so shrill that Bakura, who had easily been ignoring the song, started in surprise and roused a little from his alcohol-induced fog. "What?! What's wrong?!"

"My Fuzzy Navel!" Marik's voice was positively indignant. "Somebody drank it all! Who committed this act of evil?! I wish to torture them! I will take all of their drinks and-" He stopped abruptly, and Bakura noticed the flicker of realization in his eyes. Slowly turning to face the thief, he leaned forward and took a deep sniff before sitting back and fixing Bakura with a sharp glare. "You... I smell peach on you." His tone was dangerously soft.

Despite the strangely threatening gaze not often seen from his roommate, Bakura remained largely unaffected. He knew Marik far too well to take his anger seriously. In about five minutes a new song would start to play that would demand the Egyptian's attention, and the affair would be quickly forgotten.

"Oh, shut up, Marik," Bakura grunted, scowling at his companion. "Yes, I did drink it. And why? Because you always take one sip and then abandon it to go dance for an hour. When you return, you complain that the ice has melted and it's too watery to drink, and then you harass me until I buy you a new one. And so, rather then waste my money on a cocktail that simply melts, I drank it. Happy now?"

Marik crossed his arms and pouted again. "No, I am _not_ happy! You stole my drink!"

"Well, thievery _is _what I do..."

"In that case, you're buying me another one! Don't think I'll let you get away with this unpunished!"

A lazy, lecherous smile drifted across Bakura's face. "Oh yes, Marik... Punish me."

Marik shot him a strange look as he turned back to the bar. "Um, I am, Bakura. You're buying me another drink. I just said that."

Bakura groaned and rubbed his face in disgust. "Marik, when have you _ever_ bought your own damn drink?!"

However, Marik was no longer listening. He was instead flagging down the bartender with far more enthusiasm than necessary. "Excuse me! _Excuse me!_ I want another Fuzzy Navel, please!"

Sneering at his voice, Bakura mocked under his breath, "'I want another Fuzzy Navel, please!' Bloody wanker..." He blinked when he realized Marik had fixed him with a disapproving stare.

"Jeez, Bakura, if you wanted another drink, you can just say so. There's no need to be a friggin' ass about it! Hey, Mr. Bartender! Make that two Fuzzy Navels!"

"Wait, what?! No, I don't want another bloody Fuzzy Navel! Why is it, out of our entire conversation, _that_ was the only sentence you chose to hear?!"

"Oh, no no! You can't trick me! I distinctly heard you say you wanted another one! And you had better remember the little umbrellas in those!" The last shrill cry was directed at the bartender, who glared openly in response.

"Ugh..." Moaning in frustration, Bakura covered his face with a hand in an attempt to block out his annoying companion. It was only removed once the cocktail was smacked down in front of him. Clearly the bartender disliked him merely by his association with Marik. He regarded the beverage for a brief moment before grasping the tall glass and bringing it to his lips. He still wasn't drunk enough to drown out Marik, and thus it didn't matter what form his alcohol was in.

"Ha, see?! You did want another one!" Marik cackled gleefully around the rim of his glass. "You can't fool me, Fluffy! I can read you like a book."

"Is that so, Marik? I didn't know you could read at all."

"What?! We have been living together for so long, and you didn't even know a thing like _that_?! I'll have you know that I can read very well—you've seen all the text my computer game has!"

"You mean the text that you always complain about? The text that you never actually take the time to read? The text that you mock for its length?"

Marik stared at him, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. "Well, I—how—why, you—I am just—I-I can read, Bakura! Jeez, you are a mean drunk! I don't want to talk to you for the rest of the night!" He then promptly took his cocktail and gave Bakura a pointed glare before swiveling on the stool so his back was to the thief.

Unfazed by his petulant behavior and childish antics, Bakura shrugged and took another swallow of his own drink. The waiting game had begun. It was a test of wills to see who could hold out the longest. Bakura nearly always won, as Marik's attention span was that of a gnat. Something would catch his eye that he would have to comment on, and soon whatever they were arguing about would be forgotten.

However, as the minutes ticked by and Marik still sat away from him huffing indignantly, Bakura slowly realized Marik might actually be offended. Though being the stubborn creature he was, it wasn't until both their glasses were empty before he spoke again.

Heaving a sigh, he stared at the half-melted ice cubes in his glass and fiddled with the paper umbrella. "Oh, fine. Marik, I'm sorry I called you illiterate. Happy?" The last word was snarled out with minimal remorse.

Marik slowly turned to face the bar once again, his bottom lip still protruding slightly. "Hmph. Fine."

Bakura was in the middle of a relieved eye-roll when Marik suddenly cried, "But now you owe me another drink! Haha! That's what you get for being so mean to me!"

"Oh, bollocks..."

"Mr. Bartender! Two more Fuzzy Navels! One for this gorgeously tanned creature before you and one for my grumpy friend, Fluffy!"

Bakura slammed his fist down on the bar. "Marik! I told you not to call me that in public! And I don't want another blasted Fuzzy Navel!"

"You were mean to me, so I can do whatever I want, Fluffy!" Marik stuck his tongue out at the thief. "Besides, I think another Fuzzy Navel will do you some good—that last one made you nice enough to apologize to me."

Glowering at his roommate, Bakura growled, "I am _evil_, Marik. I don't _do_ 'nice'. The only reason I apologized was so you would stop whining!"

"Then you obviously need another Fuzzy Navel! Haha!" Marik cackled with glee when the exasperated barkeep delivered their drinks. "Come, Bakura! Let us toast our evilness! Here is to many more night of drunken revelry, evil, and exposed midriffs!"

With a frown, Bakura unenthusiastically clinked his glass to Marik's. "I suppose I can drink to that..."

Their hard-won peace was short-lived, however. Just as both put their glasses to their lips, the strains of a new song drifted through the bar. Marik proceeded to spew a mouthful of peach schnapps and vodka across the bar.

"Bakura! They're playing my jam!"

Wiping a few stray drops off his cheek, Bakura grunted, "I thought they had already played your jam tonight."

"They did! But this is my _other_ jam! I must succumb to its power! 'Cause baby I'm a fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiirework!" And then he was gone.

Casting a bleary glance at the empty stool beside him, Bakura shrugged and turned back to his drink. "Hm. Déjà vu."

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

"Ahhh... We should totally come here more often, Bakura. They have excellent taste in music! One jam after another! How long was I gone this—what the frig?!"

Marik, who had at last returned from the dance floor and fallen onto a stool, interrupted himself with a squawk of surprise. "Where the hell did Bakura go?! Now I look like a friggin' idiot, sitting here and talking to myself! Did he leave me here all alone?! Curses, he is far too clever for his own good! He knows a good beat and a catchy melody are my ultimate weaknesses! But I, the evil Marik Ishtar, have more than a few tricks up my sleeve! I shall call upon my pigeon army to visit his bedroom and leave a mess all over his pillow! He will attempt to go to sleep, only to have feathers and dung mashed into his hair! It will be truly—oh, wait. Never mind, he's right over there."

Marik had been preparing to regale the bartender the cunning punishment he had concocted in greater detail when he spotted a shock of white hair leaving the restroom. Much to the bartender's relief, this was the perfect distraction and he was able to flee to the other end of the bar.

Having promptly forgot about his new friend Mr. Bartender, Marik watched with childish delight as Bakura made his way back to his seat. Or rather, staggered his way back. He tripped twice, once on a chair leg and once over his own feet. He then managed to tumble face-first into a waitress' chest. Marik could hardly contain his laughter when he heard the thief mumble, "Thank you, ma'am, but I'm not interested."

His face turning bright red from withheld mirth, Marik grinned as his roommate untangled himself from the offended server and at last reached the bar. "So, Bakura... Did you have a nice _trip?!_ Ahahahahaha!"

Groping for the counter to steady himself, Bakura eased back onto his stool. "Oh, shut your buggering face." The curse was hardly threatening—the thief was far too mellow after two hours of drinking to feel any real irritation toward his friend. It was uttered more out of habit than anything.

"Of course, Bakura, you're right. I shouldn't make fun of you in your current state of intoxication." His eyes narrowing, Marik picked up his empty cocktail glass and brandished it in Bakura's face. "Although, if you would quit drinking my friggin' Fuzzy Navels, you might not be so drunk!"

A lazy smile tugged at Bakura's lips. "Oh, I highly doubt that."

"Grr..." Crossing his arms in prime pouting mode for the second time that night, Marik whined, "Jeez, Bakura, why do you always go out of your way to make sure we don't do anything together?! You won't ever come on the dance floor with me, and then you won't even let me get drunk with you because you keep stealing my drinks! I'm beginning to feel that you don't like me anymore!"

Bakura's eyebrows rose at the comments. Leaning forward, and almost toppling off his stool in the process, he patted Marik's knee in an abnormally kind manner. "That is not at all true, Marik. And curse me for a wanker if you ever feel that way again. I shall buy you a new drink, and you have my word that I will not touch it."

"Hmph! That's just talk, coming from a thief like you!"

Frowning, Bakura's expression grew pinched as he thought for a moment. But soon his face cleared. "I swear on your rod, Marik," he stated solemnly.

Marik glared cautiously at him. "On my Millennium Rod?"

"Yes. On your rod."

Marik brightened considerably. "Done! Come, Bakura—let us intoxicate ourselves together! This shall be an epic night!"

A dry chuckle escaped the thief as he flagged down the bartender. "Way ahead of you, my friend."

"I know! I think you should give me a chance to catch up! This just isn't fair!"

Rolling his eyes as he so often did in response to Marik's complaints, Bakura leaned heavily against the bar when the bartender grudgingly approached. "Whiskey sour for me, and a Fuzz-Fuzzy Navel for my friend here." His words were beginning to slur, much to Marik's amusement.

"Yes! Extra fuzz in my Fuzzy Navel! What do you suppose that means, Bakura? Would that be extra schnapps from the peach fuzz? Ooh, or maybe it's extra vodka because that makes your brain fuzzy! Or maybe it is _both!_ Bakura, you may be onto something!"

"Oh, goodie. Now I can add 'bartender' to my evil resumé. How wonderful."

"Hey, bartending could be a useful skill in carrying out our evil schemes! When someone orders a scotch and soda, instead of putting in soda... you could put in water! Ahahahahaha! How truly evil! His night would be ruined all because of the wrong beverage! What do you think, Bakura?"

"That's all well and evil, but I should prefer to remain on _this_ side of the bar all the same, Marik."

"Ha!" Marik poked him playfully in the side. "I know you do! Every time we come here, you never move from this spot! You know, you really should get out there and dance. You'd meet some very nice people that way."

Bakura grunted and waved Marik away. "I have no desire to... mingle. You are more than enough company for me, thank you."

"Well there you go again, being a very grumpy kitty." This time the Egyptian was brave enough to prod Bakura's cheek. In any other situation he would think twice, but seeing how his roommate's temperament had softened over the past couple hours, he felt daring enough to push the envelope a little further than normal.

"I am not a kitty..." Bakura grumbled, lightly knocking Marik's hand aside. Fortunately, their drinks arrived just then, sparing him continued torment.

"At last! The vehicle on the road to the state of intoxication! Get it? Get it, Bakura? Like we're on a road trip! Hahaha!"

Bakura paused with his whiskey halfway to his mouth so he could stare at his companion. "...Shut up and drink, you fool."

"Hmph. You just don't understand my clever wit and humor."

"I don't think _anyone_ could-"

"Excuse me." A tall, dark-haired man approached the bar and interrupted Bakura with a polite cough. The thief, displeased by even the thought of social interaction with someone who was not Marik or a bartender, quickly turned back to his drink. If he ignored this newcomer, perhaps he would go away.

Marik, however, did not take the same approach. "Oh, hey Chad! Are you done dancing already?"

Bakura's head snapped up at the familiarity in Marik's tone.

"Well, ever since you left the dance floor, it just hasn't been the same out there. Nobody moves like you do, and I found myself rather bored after a while. I was about to give up and go home when I saw you sitting here. You were such fun to dance with that I felt the least I could do was buy you a drink."

Bakura's grip on his glass was so tight that his knuckles were going white.

"Aw, gee, that's really nice of you, Chad! See, Bakura? I told you that you could meet some nice people on the dance floor!"

A grunt was all he got in reply.

Raising an eyebrow at the display, Chad turned his attention back to Marik. "So, my friend, what would you like? Anything you want, it's on me."

"Well, Bakura already got me a drink, see? The king of cocktails, the Fuzzy Navel! But look, Chad, get this." Marik held up his glass and pointed at it so Chad could clearly follow. "It's the _vehicle_... on the _road_... to the _state_ of intoxication! Get it? Just like an actual road trip! Ahahahahaha!"

Much to Bakura's disgust, Chad laughed aloud at the dreadful joke, even going so far as to clap Marik on the shoulder.

"How very amusing! You, sir, have a very charming companion, indeed!" Chad chortled to Bakura in a voice that set the thief's teeth on edge.

Deciding it was high time he stepped in, Bakura sat up and swiveled around on his stool to face them. "Yes, Marik. Quite clever," he growled, glaring openly at the newcomer.

Marik gave him an odd look. "What the frig, Bakura?! You just told me to shut up!"

"No I didn't. I find you to be an enlightening conversational companion." He was trying very hard not to slur his words—it wouldn't do to show any weakness in front of his enemy.

Looking down his nose at Bakura, Chad smoothed the front of his suit and asked, "Who is your friend, Marik? I don't believe we've been introduced."

"Oh, Chad, this is Bakura. Bakura, this is Chad. He likes Katy Perry almost as much as me!"

The two joined in a vice-like handshake.

"How wonderful," Bakura growled through clenched teeth.

"Mm, charmed." Disdain dripped from Chad's voice as he wrenched his hand away. "And what is it that you do, Mr. Bakura?"

A sneer tugged at the thief's lips. While not ashamed of his profession in the slightest, saying 'thievery' was not going to impress Chad much, if at all. He had to think of something else. "Freelance," he spat out.

"Oh really? Freelance what? Writing?"

"Er... Bartending." It was the best his brain could come up with from the throes of alcohol.

"Mm." Chad's tone implied he was less than impressed. "How very nice. As for myself, I am one of the senior accountants at Industrial Illusions. I answer to Maximilian Pegasus himself!"

"Pegasus! I haven't talked to him in weeks!" Marik cried, making both Chad and Bakura start. They had nearly forgotten the Egyptian was there.

Blinking, Chad quickly brought a smile back to his face. "You know Mr. Pegasus, Marik?"

"Yes, we were on an evil counci—I-I mean, we've done some business dealings in the past. I am a huge fan of his card game, after all." Even Marik knew to keep talk of the evil council quiet. It was a secret organization, after all. "And he was always giving me excellent tips on how to keep my hair glossy! The man knows his stuff!"

"Indeed he does. Your hair looks fabulous."

"Thank you! How come you never tell me anything like that, Bakura?" Marik fixed him with a firm glare.

"Because I prefer to compliment you on your more important accomplishments in life, not how glossy your bloody hair is!"

"Hmph. I just can't remember the last time you said anything nice to me, that's all."

Bakura's fists clenched in frustration. "I bought you your damn drink! And I even swore on your rod that I wouldn't touch it! If that isn't nice, then I don't know what the bloody hell is!"

Watching their exchange with mild amusement, Chad finally shook his head and chuckled. "Look, Marik. I can see you're busy, so I won't take up any more of your time. But should you ever need a fun night out and away from Mr. Stick-Up-His-Ass here, just give me a call." He slipped a business card into Marik's hand. "I'll be sure to show you a good time."

"Okay! Bye, Chad!" Marik, totally oblivious to what the accountant had been implying, waved cheerfully as he sauntered away.

Bakura glared openly after him, hatred oozing from his slim frame. Snarling, he spun back to the bar and groped for his drink. "I cannot believe that you led him on, Marik," he growled, barely controlled anger saturating his tone.

"Led him on? What are you talking about?"

"Oh, don't play games with me. The man was practically drooling all over you and you did nothing to deter him!" The anger in Bakura's voice was different than earlier in the evening. Before, it was anger born from annoyance. But now even Marik could tell the thief was legitimately upset.

"Drooling over me...? Wait, do you mean he was hitting on me?! Bakura, I'm not gay!"

Glaring at the Egyptian out of the corner of his eyes, Bakura sipped again at his drink. "Even if I played along with your delusions on your sexual preferences, the issue still stands that _he_ was gay. And hitting on you. _And you led him on._"

Marik sat on the bar stool, too flummoxed to speak. He was so used to defending his own sexuality that he hadn't even considered the possibility of Chad coming onto him. However, after a few moments of pondering this, he grew defensive—Bakura was attacking his character, and he wouldn't stand for that.

Well, be that as it may..." he growled, poking the thief in the shoulder with each word, "_You_ can't tell me what to do! I was having fun out there with Chad, while you had your ass stuck to this stool! So don't even try getting angry with me! If this is anyone's fault, it's _yours!_"

Bakura gaped at him, surprised by the comeback. Usually Marik only won their arguments because Bakura couldn't handle the sheer stupidity. But for once Marik fought back with an actual jab.

"But... but you were clearly giving him the green light when that bastard came over here!" Bakura snarled, pounding his fist on the bar. "If you weren't interested, then why the bloody hell did you keep talking?!"

"Oh gee, I don't know. Maybe it's because I've had almost _no _companionship tonight!" Marik snapped back.

Bakura frowned, his brow still pinched in anger. "That's not true."

"Ha!" Grinning cockily, because he could tell he was getting the upper hand in an argument for once, Marik pulled out Chad's business card and ran it through his fingers. "You know, maybe I will give him a call later. He was a hell of a lot more fun than you. I could use a little company that won't mock me every time I speak!"

At the mention of calling Chad, Bakura slammed his empty glass down. He said nothing, only stared at Marik with a rather intense gaze.

Marik shifted uncomfortably. "What are _you_ looking at?!"

At last, Bakura moved. Climbing down from his stool, he swayed unsteadily as he flagged the bartender. "My good man," he stated, clapping Marik on the shoulder in such an amicable display that Marik started in surprise, "Another whiskey sour for me, and a Fuzzy Navel—with an umbrella—for my friend. And they had better be damn good."

As the bartender nodded and got to work, Marik glanced suspiciously at the thief who had yet to remove his hand. "I've barely had any of my drink, Bakura," he pointed out, lifting his peach-scented cocktail.

"That's quite all right," Bakura replied, blinking rapidly. Apparently standing was a little trickier this deep into his cups than he had thought. "I have something I need to take care of and might be gone for a few minutes. I didn't want you to get lonely."

"So you... bought me a drink. Sorry Bakura, but just because that's companionship to _you_ doesn't mean it works for me. You can't buy your way into my good graces this time! I'm still mad at you!"

"Of course, Marik. Whatever you want is fine by me. Now, if you'll excuse me...?" Giving Marik's shoulder a pat, Bakura pushed away and stumbled into the crowd.

Marik turned to watch him, first with distrust and then with great amusement when the thief tripped and plunged head-first into the chest of yet another waitress. "Ahahahaha! Serves you right! Wait! 'Serves'! And you tripped into a waitress! Oh my God, I'm hilarious!"

"Yeah, yeah. You're a real comedian," the bartender grunted, smacking another cocktail down. "Now drink up and shut up. Please."

Still laughing at his pun, Marik took up his drink and raised it high in the air. "With pleasure! Now is my chance to catch up to  
Bakura—land of intoxication, here I come!"

oOoOoOoOo

"Hello, Marik," Bakura greeted, sounding a little out of breath as he stumbled back to his seat. "Did you enjoy yourself while I was away?"

Marik was slumped over a nearly empty glass with another glass on its side nearby. "Fluffy... leather... yes, please. Hehe. Foxy boxes."

Laughing, Bakura leaned against the bar and rested his chin in his hand. "I'll take that as a 'yes'."

Suddenly, Marik blinked and sat up, staring at Bakura in surprise. "Bakura!" he said loudly. "Y-you're back! And you're not alone!"

"Mm?" Glancing to either side, Bakura gave Marik a quizzical look. "What are you talking about?"

"There are two of you..." Marik slurred, pointing a wavering finger at the thief.

"Ah." With a chuckle, Bakura surveyed the bar top. "I see you enjoyed your cocktails. And my whiskey sour as well." He lifted his own empty glass to inspect it.

Marik cackled gleefully. "You stole mine! I-it's only fair I take yours too!"

Smiling placidly, Bakura set the cup down again. "Indeed, Marik. But now it would seem we are out of drinks. And we cannot celebrate without any drinks. Bartender, a-"

"A Fuzzy Navel and a whiskey sour! I know, I know..."

Marik stared fuzzily at his roommate. "Celebrate?" he repeated, swaying and catching himself on the bar. "What are we celebrating? Did they pass a law where all tops have to expose our midriffs?!"

Bakura laughed aloud at the absurd question. Marik, had he not been so drunk, would have found the sound of his laughter disturbing, but as such did not even notice.

"Hahaha... Oh, no, Marik. No such law has been passed."

"What?! Well then, what is there to celebrate?"

With a pleased sigh, Bakura rested his chin in his hand. "We are celebrating the fact that you..." Swiftly snatching up the business card that lay forgotten next to Marik's arm, he grinned a toothy grin. "...won't be needing this anymore." He then proceeded to rip the card to shreds.

Blinking, Marik squinted at the pile of confetti that now littered the bar. "Erm... what was that, again?"

"It was a completely useless scrap of paper."

Marik shifted his bleary gaze to the thief, who seemed immensely proud of himself for destroying the small white rectangle. "...So why are you so friggin' happy about it? You're _never_ this happy. Unless death is involved."

The placid smile on Bakura's face grew wider, and he uttered a sigh of sheer pleasure. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"What?! Look, I may be intox—intic-intocix-I-I may be drunk, but I know when you're happy! And it's effin' _weird_! And why the hell do you have broken glass in your hair?!"

Fortunately, Bakura was spared answering when the bartender unceremoniously plopped their drinks down and stalked off. Marik grabbed his and happily cried, "He remembered the umbrella!" before taking a liberal gulp.

Bakura followed suit, though with a bit more decorum than his counterpart. Savoring the burning sensation as he let the liquor slide down his throat, it was only once he swallowed when he realized there was a conversation of particular interest taking place on his right. He brought the glass to his lips for another drink as he attempted to listen in as nonchalantly as possible.

"-givin' me the creeps, man." The speaker was a middle-aged man who was eagerly accepting a beer from the bartender. He did appear to be visibly shaken, as his hands were trembling before they were wrapped around the beer mug.

"Well, what was it?"

Bakura sneered in disgust. It seemed the bartender was nice to everyone but him and Marik.

After a sip of beer, the man replied, "I walked by just as the cops were puttin' the body on the stretcher. His face was all flat... the blood hadn't even dried, man!"

Bakura's eyebrows raised in mild surprise. Chad had been found rather quickly.

"Jeez... What do you think happened to 'im?" the bartender asked.

"Heard the cops say he had fallen out of a window. They don't know if it was foul play or not, although they seemed to be leaning toward suicide. The guy was a higher up at Industrial Illusions—the stress from that job has gotta be insane."

Bakura quickly glanced over to see if Marik had overheard any of this, and was relieved to see this was not the case. The Egyptian had started a contest to see who could down their drink first, though he had neglected to mention this to Bakura. He was attempting to chug his Fuzzy Navel, but as he was not quite the borderline alcoholic his roommate was, he kept coughing and spluttering every couple of swallows. Thus, he was deaf to anything going on around him.

This face allowed Bakura to grin evilly as pride swelled within his breast. Chad from Accounting was gone, he had covered his trail so the police weren't even suspecting murder, and Marik remained blissfully ignorant to it all. _I haven't lost my touch._

Raising his drink in the air, he clapped Marik on the back to help him through a coughing fit and said loudly, "Marik! A toast!"

Hastily, Marik scrabbled for his drink and lifted it as well, biting back another cough. "Y-yes! A toast! What're we toasting?"

With a slight frown, Bakura thought a moment before saying solemnly, "To your midriff! May those washboard abs forever gleam that glorious bronze!"

Marik stared wide-eyed at him, his lower lip trembling with emotion. Swiping roughly at his eyes, he choked, "B-Bakura, that's the nicest thing you've ever s-said to me! Yes!" Raising his glass once again, he cried, "To my incredible midriff! Long may it shine!"

Due to the fact that both had already consumed more than a healthy amount of liquor, it took a couple of tries before they could meet for the toast. But once their glasses clinked together it took only a few seconds for their contents to disappear.

"Ahh!" Bakura said contentedly once he could breathe again. "Wonderful! Another!" Why should he care that the room was tilting crazily and that two Marik's were floating around next to him? This was a time for celebration!

"Yes!" Marik agreed loudly, making three attempts before getting his glass back on the bar. He no longer knew what was going on, only that Bakura had finally loosened up. That alone was an excellent excuse for a party in his book. "More fuzz! More umbrellas!"

Hearing their raucous demands for more booze, the bartender sighed and shuffled off to prepare the drinks. Honestly, he was sick of mixing an endless stream of Fuzzy Navels and whiskey sours; it happened every night those two showed up. The only reason he didn't kick them out was because their money was good, and the more they drank the more they tipped.

His thoughts of their bill at the end of the night was broken by loud peals of laughter coming from the blonde one. Glaring irritably in their direction, he heard the pale one slur, "It's not my fault I go face-first into their chests!"

With a heavy sigh and an eye roll, he went back to their drinks. _This is gonna be a long night..._

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

"Hehehe..." Long tan fingers felt aimlessly about the bar top, making several tries before meeting with the object of their desire: a paper umbrella. With a grunt of satisfaction, the owner of those fingers carefully lifted the toothpick and squinted at the colored paper with bloodshot eyes. Apparently liking what he saw, the man grinned and mumbled, "Perfect." Then, with a triumphant cry, he stuck the umbrella into the mess of spiky white hair next to him that already bore a forest of umbrellas. "G-go forth, li'l one! Join your brotherssss..." Marik slumped against the bar, his head bobbing and his eyes fluttering shut.

A towel smacked down on the counter, mere millimeters from his nose. With a yelp of surprise, he bolted upright and stared wide-eyed about himself. "Wha'?! Who's there?! Izzat you, Mega Ultra Chicken?!"

"I beg your pardon?" the bartender growled, flipping the towel back over his shoulder.

"Oh..." Grinning in relief, Marik immediately calmed down. "'S just you."

"Hmph." Crossing his arms over his thick chest, the bartender chose to ignore the insult and move on. "Look pal, it's closing time. You need to scrape up your friend and get the hell outta here. Seriously."

Marik blinked fuzzily in response. "My... friend?"

Instead of speaking, the bartender simply pointed at the seat next to him.

Bakura sat with his cheek mashed into the palm of his hand. His mouth was hanging agape and his eyes were barely open, so it was difficult to tell if he was awake or not. However, as he hadn't moved a muscle for nearly fifteen minutes, the bartender was guessing consciousness was no companion of his.

"Hey, it's Bakura!" Marik sounded genuinely surprised to see him. "Bakuraaaa... How are you?" He slapped the thief on the back, startling him into awareness.

"He fell outta th' window! I didn' do it!" Bakura shouted, slamming both palms down on the bar. Then he blinked, slowly getting his bearings. As the bartender's face swam vaguely into view, he put on his trademark scowl and said in a serious tone, "I... w-would like.. some leather pants, please." The request, in addition to the fact that over half a dozen paper umbrellas were poking out of his hair, destroyed any scrap of dignity he was attempting to convey.

"Leather pants?" the bartender repeated with a smirk. "I can't say I've heard of that drink before."

Recognition flickered in Bakura's glazed eyes. "A drink! Yes, that sounds quite good."

"H-hold up there, Fluffy," Marik chuckled, grabbing hold of the thief's shirt sleeve to keep himself upright. "He...he said we have to, to leave. I don' think they l-like us anymore."

Bakura peered at Marik as though just realizing he was there, then he harrumphed and slowly wobbled around on his stool. "In that case, _we_ don' like _them_! Come, Marik. Let us leave this... this... this _them_ and get outta here! We shall—ooh." The groan was uttered when, upon standing, he discovered being upright was not as easy as it was four hours and a gallon of alcohol ago. After one stumble, he dropped like a stone and sat down hard on the floor.

"Ahahahahaha! Silly Bakura..." Marik slid off his seat as well. While he did not go all the way down like his partner, he did sag against the counter while the world spun in his vision. "W-whoa... This's a fun ride, but I wanna get off."

Snorting at the pathetic sight of two fit young men in such a pitiful state of intoxication, the bartender nodded at the bouncer. It was time they were escorted out.

Marik was attempting to get his feet under himself when a large hand grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and jerked him upright. Another hand tugged a rather limp Bakura off the floor, and soon the pair found themselves greeting the sidewalk face-first. "Good luck getting home, boys," the man grunted before he locked the door.

Spluttering with rage, Marik climbed to his feet with all the grace of a newborn giraffe taking its first steps. He required the aid of a lamppost to accomplish this task, and he was reluctant to relinquish his grip even as he shook a fist at the bar. "How _dare_ you treat Marik friggin' Ishtar like that?!" he howled, attempt to charge at the bar before quickly deciding not to leave the stability of the lamp. "I shall c-call upon my army of Steves to lay waste to your es—esta-estab-to your bar! Come, my Steves! Show th-those fools th' true might of Marik Ishtar!"

His obnoxiously loud command was greeted with silence. Nothing appeared to be happening, but Marik continued to wait with his hand outstretched expectantly.

A car whizzed by on the road behind him.

Uttering a short growl, Marik tried again. "Come, Steves! Rain your fury upon this place! Show these mis—miscreants-" he paused in surprise at actually completing such a difficult word, "-what happens when you incur the wrath of Marik Ishtar!"

Again, only stillness responded to his order. A dog barked a few blocks away.

Bakura, who had managed to scrape together enough motor skills to roll onto his back, let out a hiccup. "Go get 'em," he slurred, weakly pumping a fist in the air before letting it flop back to the sidewalk.

"Grr..." Irritated by the lack of response, Marik withdrew his hand and peered closely at it with great annoyance. "What th' frig is wrong with this damn thing?! It was workin' a few days—oh..." He trailed off, flexing his fingers absently. "I don' have my Millennium Rod."

"You don' have your rod?" Bakura's voice, laced with concern, drifted lazily over to Marik. "Y-you should always keep your rod in your pants. Well, 'cept for fun times." A lewd chuckle ended his statement, followed by another hiccup.

"My Millennium Rod, Fluffy!" Even drunk, Marik wasn't about to let Bakura get away with such an inappropriate joke. "K-keep makin' comments like that an' I won' help you get home!" It was an empty threat—Marik needed Bakura to lean on just as much as the thief needed him—but it did at least get a reaction.

Moaning, Bakura slowly got into a sitting position. However, he was unsteady at best, and quickly fell against the side of the bar. "Marik..." he groaned pathetically, his cheek mashed against the rough brick.

"I'm comin', I'm comin'..." Leaving the stability of the light pole, Marik slowly wobbled over to his roommate. In a move that could be deemed nothing short of miraculous, the Egyptian managed to heave Bakura to his feet and keep himself upright at the same time.

After the initial struggle of each getting an arm over the other's shoulders, they were at last on their feet, semi-stable, and mobile. Hesitantly, they staggered a few uncertain steps but did not fall.

"This'd be a lot easier," Bakura muttered as he scowled darkly at the sidewalk, "if th' ground would stop bloody movin'."

"Ha! This jus' proves that we are _better_ than this moving ground!" Marik was buoyed by their success, and pumped his fist into the air with pride. "We are the masters of sidewalks, whether they are m-moving, or... or... or not moving!"

"'M not so sure," the thief murmured in response. It seemed that when Marik displayed his enthusiasm for being a sidewalk master and moved his arm, it upset the delicate balance of their unsteady position. This caused the pair to pitch to the left, where Marik promptly smacked face-first into a streetlight.

"Ow..." Rubbing his wounded nose, Marik glared sharply at the three posts swimming before him. "Where the frig did _you_ come from?!" he snapped. "When I get my hands on my Rod, you will re-regret getting in my way!"

"I'd like t' get my hands on your rod, Marik..." Bakura murmured dazedly.

"Shuddup, Fluffy! I-I'm teachin' this pole some manners!"

"Oh, do it t'morrow," the thief grunted, weakly attempting to tug his roommate away from the light. "Let's jus' go home."

"Aww..." Marik cooed, releasing his grip and stumbling forward. "Is the kitty not feelin' good?"

A sneer tugged at Bakura's lip, but he found himself incapable of yelling at his counterpart over the nickname. "No, I'm jus' d-danger...dangerously close t' uncon—unconc..." He heaved a sigh. "Oh, bollocks. Kitty needs sleep."

"Oh, all right. But don' think I'll forget this soon!" Marik shouted over his shoulder at the hated light as they continued on.

For a few moments, they wobbled their way down the sidewalk in relative peace. However, Marik slowly began to realize that they were drifting to the left again, and that the weight on his right side was growing heavier with each step. "What th'... _Bakura!_ Wake up! We've been over this before—you can't sleep on me!"

In any other situation, the thief would have smirked and made some incredibly lewd retort. Tormenting Marik with such comments was his favorite pasttime, after all. But it appeared that all the alcohol he had consumed was proving stronger than his libido, and he was slipping silently into unconsciousness.

"No, no, no, frig no!" Staggering under the extra weight, Marik found himself unable to move forward. Instead they tumbled sideways, where he smacked face-first into yet another streetlight. "Oww... Friggin' pole! I will have my revenge! Jus' you wait!"

Jarred from the impact and roused by Marik's frustrated cry, Bakura shifted slightly and raised his head. "We... We there yet?" he slurred hopefully.

"No! An' don' go back to sleep, either!" There was an edge of panic in Marik's voice as he struggled to come up with an idea. "I-If you stay awake, I'll...uh... I'll... I'll get you more leather pants!"

For a few moments, there was no change in the white-haired thief. He remained slumped against Marik, blinking slowly under the harsh light of the lamppost.

"Bakura...?" Marik jostled him, praying he hadn't fallen asleep again. "Hey, Bakura..." He prodded one of his roommate's flushed cheeks. "Leather pants, Bakura. All for you."

"_Wear, wear, leather, baby! Work it! Move your tush, it's sexy!"_

"Waugh! What th' frig, Bakura?!" Marik gave a yell of surprise when Bakura let out the sudden shout.

"_Wear, wear, leather, baby! Work it! Move your tush, it's sexy!"_ Bakura roared again.

"Ahahahahaha! Damn, Bakura, if you had only done this at th' bar, we'd have been th' most friggin' _amazing_ people there! Do it again!"

"_Wear, wear, leather, baby! Work it, move your tush, it's sexy!"_

As he continued to bellow out the lyrics to what was apparently his favorite song, Marik managed to shove him upright and get them stumbling on their way once more. And shortly after they were one the move, he found he could no longer resist joining in. Soon, every apartment dweller in a five-block radius was treated to a pair of drunken buffoons with atrocious voices caterwauling about an article of clothing.

"_We don't want vinyl or chinos or briefs! I am a criminal an' he is a thief, 'cuz we're both hot! Hot, hot, hot! We are quite sexy!"_

"Damn right!"

"Frig, yes! Whoa, whoa, whoa!"

Their enthusiasm, while quite impressive in their current condition, was causing them to sway to and fro. At Marik's last cry they lost control. Pitching off to the side, Marik's face found yet another streetlight, and Bakura found himself staring into a trash can debating whether he needed to use it.

They fell silent for a moment. Now that they had quit singing and were still, the excitement of the song began to wear off. They were, in a word, crashing.

"Hey, Bakura?" Marik mumbled, his face still firmly planted in the lamppost.

"Hmm?" The thief didn't look quite prepared to leave his trash can either.

"Izzit possible to... to send streetlights to th' Shadow Realm? 'Cuz that _really_ needs to happen. _Really_." With that, he unpeeled his face from the pole.

Seeming to consider the idea for a moment, Bakura finally shrugged. "Dunno. Try it an' see."

"But I don' have my Rod!"

Bakura's eyes widened at the thought. "Marik, that's terrible! We have t' find you a new one!"

"...My Millennium Rod. Perv."

"Oh, right." He calmed down considerably. "We'll try tomorrow, then." Peering off to the side, he spotted the very blurry outline of an apartment building. Or at least, he thought it was an apartment building. He had long ago drowned in whiskey sours the part of his brain that could recognize an apartment building. The building simply looked familiar, so he hoped it was home.

"Marik..." he mumbled fuzzily, turning his body so that he was leaning against the trash can and not over it. "Isn' that... where we live?"

"Huh?" Marik, who was struggling to his feet, glanced in the general direction of the building across from them. "Hmm... Only one way to find out. Come, Fluffy! Onward!" He abandoned the light post that was both his bane and his only solid support, and surged forward with fresh enthusiasm. But with no lamp and no Bakura to lean against, he took two unsteady steps before falling flat on his face.

There was a brief moment of silence before a muffled, "Dammit!" drifted to Bakura's ears.

"Marik?" he slurred, squinting at the prone figure. "Are we sleepin' out here t'night?"

"No! Th' day I can't get home is th' day I start wearin' shirts that cover my midriff! Fluffy! Come help me up!" His voice tended to get a bit shrill when he was frustrated.

The thief chuckled at the very idea. "I don' think I would be much help." It was true. His head felt so heavy that if he bent over he would certainly go all the way down. Standing on his own was out of the question as well, so assisting someone with dead weight off the ground was a laughable thought.

"Grr... Fine! I'll do it myself! But see if I help _your_ boozed up ass th' next time you fall down!"

"I give you per...permisshun t' leave me where I lie," Bakura informed him, staring with great amusement as the Egyptian struggled to his feet. For a minute or two he received a delightful view of Marik's rear end stuck up in the air, but soon found himself disappointed as the man succeeded in gaining an upright position.

"Whoa..." Stumbling backward from the head rush, Marik was relieved when he bumped into Bakura's trash can. "Y'know, Bakura... Sometimes I think that maybe, jus' maybe... we might drink too much. Whadda you think?"

"I think..." The thief slung an arm over Marik's shoulders, shifting his weight onto the slim man. "That there's no such thing. Now, can you phil...philopho...philosoph... c-can you think 'bout that later an' help me get home?" The word 'philosophize' was really far beyond his grasp at this point, but he attempted it merely to prove Marik wrong. It didn't quite work, but he figured that even trying counted for something.

With a grunt of acceptance, Marik got his arm over Bakura's shoulders and together they pushed off the trash can. After a brief off-kilter trek across the sidewalk, they barely were able to trip up the four stairs to the entrance of the building. Technically, Bakura didn't quite make it, and he fell face-first into the front door. But Marik took no notice of him, squinting at the name plates next to the doors.

"Hm... Ah-HA!" His crow of delight jolted Bakura upright. "This _is_ our apartment! I was th' only one smart 'nough to decorate th' name plate properly—with gold an' glitter!" It was true. The only tag that stood out through their alcohol-haze was garishly painted in metallic gold. In neon pink glitter glue the name _Marik Sebastian Ishtar III _was clearly visible, while the name _Bakura _was scratched in after it with a knife.

"Mm." Bakura glanced briefly at the sign. "Lovely."

"Of course it is!" Marik insisted, catching the sarcastic tone in the thief's voice. "I spent _hours_ on that thing, y'know! Bu' then I gave it t' _you_..." He blinked distastefully at the second name. "You ruined it."

"I don' do arts 'n' crafts."

"Hmph. I know! You have a weird fear of hot glue an' glitter. We should work on that, Bakura."

With a sigh, Bakura sagged against the door. "Fine, fine. But can we do that later? I jus' wanna go t' bed."

"Ha! Party pooper! Promise me a craft night, or I'm leavin' you out here!"

"Sure, Marik. Craft night..." The sentence was nearly intelligible, as Bakura's cheek was smashed against the glass door. He was quickly slipping out of consciousness again and making no attempts to stop the descent.

"Yes! No goin' back, Fluffy!" Pounding Bakura on the back in his excitement and jerking the man awake as well, Marik finally dug around in his pocket for the key to the building. Bakura never carried one, as he chose to simply pick the lock when he needed inside, but Marik still had to bring his along for the moments when the thief was in no condition to put his skills to use. "Ah, here we go. Okay... Bakura, hold me steady."

Rolling his eyes as the Egyptian bent over to study the keyhole, Bakura placed a heavy hand on Marik's shoulder to keep him from toppling over. "Hurry it up," he grunted.

"Silence, kitty! This requires a-absolute con...concen...er, focus!" With his tongue sticking out past his lips, Marik lifted the key and tried to decide which keyhole floating in his vision was the right one. After a brief moment's study, he finally shrugged and chose to try them all. One would work eventually.

After three nasty scratches were carved into the glass door, the key was at last inserted with a crow of success. "Yes! Let it be known that I am th' master of all doors!"

Bakura, who had to drag himself back to the land of living as Marik hauled him inside, peered at the irritated security guard. "He's... Door Master," was his intelligent explanation as they stumbled past.

"Be sure to let the Door Master know the bill for the glass will be added to his rent," the guard snapped back.

Bakura, incapable of any wittier retort, managed to pull off an incredibly rude gesture before Marik tugged him onto the elevator.

"All right... Wha' floor do we live on?" Marik asked, squinting blearily at the row of glowing buttons. The joy of his door-opening success had quickly worn off. He was beginning to understand his roommate's desperation for a soft bed.

"Four," was the thief's automatic reply. He had burned that number into his brain so that even on the nights when his head was practically swimming in liquor he would still be able to find the right floor.

There had been one earlier occasion where he and Marik, both in impressive states of intoxication, had taken the elevator to the wrong floor. Upon arrival, they broke into an apartment they believed to be theirs. Unfortunately, they couldn't make it past the entryway and passed out in an undignified heap. The next morning they awoke to an old woman screeching and beating them with a rather large purse while her cat hissed nearby. By the time they were able to register what was happening, the police were handcuffing them and taking them to the station to have a chat about the law and its views on breaking and entering.

So, in an attempt to avoid the wrath of their elderly upstairs neighbor and her dislike of strange men passed out in her foyer, Bakura had imprinted their floor number in his skull. It had come in handy on numerous occasions since.

"Four...four... Hehe, remember that ol' lady, Bakura?" Marik giggled, clearly recalling the same incident.

A grin tugged at Bakura's lips as the Egyptian found the correct button. "Heh. Crazy ol' biddy. She wuz lucky all we did was sleep."

"Sh-she _totally_ overreacted," Marik agreed, leaning heavily against the wall as the elevator shuddered upward.

Both fell silent after that. The sensation of a rising elevator in combination with drunken dizziness was a rather poor joining. Keeping their mouths shut tight was the best course of action.

After what felt like an interminable ride, the pair at last staggered off the elevator, looking rather sickly. They were quite ready for their fun night out to be over. Fortunately, their apartment was right next to the elevator, and Marik had even left it unlocked. Within just a couple minutes and a weak mumble of, "I'm th' Door Master," Marik and Bakura at last collapsed onto their battered sofa.

"Ahh..." Marik sighed in relief. "Bakura... We did it!"

"Hurray," the thief murmured, shutting his eyes and leaning his head back.

"I would say we should cele...celebrate this victory, but I'll be honest—I jus' wanna go t' bed. How 'bout you, Fluffy?" Marik nudged Bakura in the side with a grin. He was proud of their accomplishments that evening. However, the slight movement was all it took for the white-haired man to slump over into the cushions, dead to the world.

Blinking in surprise as his roommate uttered a soft snore, Marik chuckled and wobbled to his feet. "Silly Bakura. Ooh." The last moan escaped as he swayed and nearly sat down again. It was harder to stand without his partner as a comfortable counterweight.

Once he steadied himself against the coffee table, he lifted Bakura's legs onto the cushions so the thief could properly stretch out.

"Hm..." Studying his handiwork, a mischievous smirk split across his face. "Oh yeah. Fluffy can't sleep without _that_..." With a wicked cackle, Marik carefully groped his way into his roommate's bedroom, managing to only bump into the door frame. Though that was quite a feat in his insobriety, he didn't pause to celebrate. Instead he tottered over to the bed and felt around under the pillow, taking care to avoid the knife he knew resided there. Bakura always preferred to have one close by, even in his sleep.

But the item he sought was not a knife. Rather, it was completely opposite in nature. Knives were cold, sharp, and deadly. What Marik hunted for was warm, soft, and cuddly. And he at last found the item crammed between the headboard and the mattress, hidden carefully from view.

He had to smother a giggle as he at last withdrew the prize—a stuffed gray kitten, tattered and well-worn. Patches of fur had been rubbed off in places, and paws that were once white were now a dirty gray from countless nights of cuddling.

Yes, Marik had discovered Bakura's secret a couple of weeks prior. His friend had been gone for nearly twenty-four hours ('out thieving' was the only explanation Marik got) and returned just after daybreak, utterly exhausted. Knowing the man had managed to get his hands on a large sum of cash, Marik waited impatiently for only a couple hours before he entered the thief's room to beg some money for new midriff-baring tops. He was instead treated to the sight of Bakura fast asleep with the stuffed cat cradled in his arms.

It had taken all of Marik's willpower not to burst out laughing then, but his silence paid off. Bakura still thought his secret was safe.

"Come along..." Marik whispered loudly to the cat as he stumbled out of the bedroom. "Th' big kitty needs you."

After almost knocking over their entertainment center in mid-stagger, Marik finally crouched down and pressed the doll into Bakura's limp hand. It took a moment, but soon Bakura's arm curled protectively around the cat and drew it into his chest. With his mouth hanging open and drool running out, Marik knew he could not resist this opportunity.

"Hehehe..." After a bit of a struggle, he tugged out his cell phone and snapped a picture. Blackmail against Bakura was difficult to obtain, and he would have to be completely stupid to pass up such a moment.

Sighing with pleasure, he stood up straight and stretched. Despite all the fun they'd had that evening, it was time to at last call it a night. He glanced down at the snoring thief and suppressed another giggle.

"Sweet dreams, Fluffy."

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

Darkness. Silence. Those were the two things Bakura currently cherished most. He had wallowed heavily in them all night long, and had no intent to leave their smothering embrace any time soon. However, his roommate clearly had different plans for him, as usual. A sudden shout yanked Bakura out of blissful unconsciousness, causing him to open his eyes and be blinded by mid-afternoon sunlight.

"_Great PC from the sky, hear my cry! Transform thyself—_ooh geez, ow—_from off to on, and give me access to my-"_

"Marik, shut your buggering face right _now_." His voice was weak, pathetically so, but it was enough to put a halt to Marik's chant. Squeezing his eyes shut to block out the hated light, Bakura crammed his face into the cushions. His head was throbbing painfully, brought on by a raging hangover and exacerbated by Marik's shrill tones.

"Aw, does the kitty not feel good?" Marik cooed, abandoning his computer for his roommate. Plopping down on the coffee table so he could easily torment his friend, he grinned and poked the thief's cheek. "Did Fluffy drink too much last night?"

"Leave me alone," Bakura moaned hoarsely, weakly swatting Marik's hand away. "Let me throw up in peace."

Marik jerked his hand away as though it had been stung. He wasn't fond of vomit, and in Bakura's current state, he couldn't tell if the plea was real or an attempt to get him to leave. "Er, a-are you serious, Bakura?" he asked hesitantly.

Bakura groaned—Marik's voice was still too loud for his battered head. "I will be if you don't speak quieter," he snarled, rolling onto his side so he could massage his temples.

Relieved to know the threat was empty, Marik laughed and reclined back on the coffee table. "That was some night, eh Bakura? The drinking, the carousing, the singing—you're a great singer, did you know that?"

Bakura merely grunted. He didn't know that, and neither did he want to know that. But unfortunately, he probably should find out what happened. "What was I singing, and who heard me?" he mumbled, cracking open one eye to glare blearily at the far-too-happy Egyptian.

"Only the whole neighborhood," Marik gleefully replied. "And what was it you were singing...? Oh, yeah!"

Bakura's reflexes were too sluggish for him to stop his roommate once he realized his ears were about to be assaulted, but he at least managed to cover them in time.

"_Wear, wear, leather, baby! Work it! Move your—_ohhh, ow..." The song was cut short when Marik trailed off with a moan and clutched at his head.

"Hehe. Looks like I'm not the only one with a hangover," Bakura chuckled, lowering his hands from his ears.

"No, no, it's not a hangover. I don't get those," Marik informed him, wincing slightly. "It's just that sometimes my head hurts when there's a loud noise."

"Yes, Marik. That's called a hangover."

"No, I don't get those."

Bloodshot eyes met innocent ones as Bakura stared in disbelief. "Ah, I see it now. You're just too stupid to know when you're hungover. That's the only explanation."

Marik spluttered indignantly at the remark. "What?! I'll have you know that I am much smarter than _you_! How could you say that to me?!"

"Hmph." Deciding not to argue as that would only cause Marik to talk louder, Bakura settled on a cocky grin before shutting his eyes.

"Grr..." Spotting the kitten that was nestled, forgotten, against Bakura's stomach, Marik sneered at the thief. "Y'know, I would be nicer to me if I were you, Bakura. I may have perhaps gotten a bit of blackmail against you last night. A photo of you in a compromising position, perhaps...?"

With a snort, Bakura merely shifted on the couch. "I highly doubt that," he muttered. "I wouldn't be caught in a compromising position with anyone except you, Marik. Drunk or no." It was true. Ever since moving in together, the thief had felt absolutely no attraction to anyone else. His feelings remained unrequited, at least for now.

"Bakura, I have told you a million times, I'm not gay! Urgh..." He winced again—he really needed to learn to keep his voice down. "And anyway, that's besides the point! I have dirt on you, whether you believe it or not!" Leaning forward, Marik regarded the thief with an evil grin. "Does a certain gray kitty ring any bells?"

Both of Bakura's red-rimmed eyes popped open at the remark. "I-I...I don't know what you're talking about," he muttered, his tone dangerously soft.

His smile broadening, Marik reached out and snatched the toy away from Bakura's abdomen. "Oh, really? Then who's kitty is this?" With a shriek of delight, he tumbled backward off the coffee table to avoid the sudden swipe Bakura made. "Ha! I knew it! Ohh, ow." Crashing to the floor didn't help his headache, but he was too smug to dwell on it.

He climbed to his feet, taunting the thief with the doll. "What to do with this? Since you deny owning this thing, it shouldn't matter what I do with it. Perhaps I could have some fun with my hot glue gun. Or maybe the kitty should go on a date with the garbage disposal."

Bakura, whose face had already turned a sickly green when he sat up too quickly in pursuit of the cat, suddenly went white after the threats penetrated his spinning brain. "Y-you will not lay a finger on Mr. Snuffles..." he growled, trying to keep his vision from splitting so he could glare properly at Marik.

"Only if you apologize for calling me stupid! And gay! Do it, or the kitty dies!"

Not one to be bossed around, Bakura fumbled in his pocket for his phone. Punching a number into it, he fixed Marik with a red-eyed glare. "Hello, Slenderman? Yes, Marik is about to start playing a new computer game and would like some company."

It was the Egyptian's turn to have the color drained from his cheeks. It was a well-known fact that Slenderman gave him the heebie-jeebies. In his panic, he hastily grabbed one of the kitten's paw in each hand and pulled them tight. Every seam was stretched taut—one good yank and the cat would be dismembered. Holding it up high so Bakura could clearly see, Marik whispered, "I _will_ do it."

Tense silence reigned for a few moments. But at last Bakura said softly, "Never mind, Slenderman. Marik decided not to play." And then he hung up.

Still glaring at each other, they lowered their arms in unison. Once Bakura released his phone, Marik tossed the cat back to him.

"Hehe. 'Mr. Snuffles'? That's really cute, Bakura!"

"Oh, shut up. Weren't you going to play a computer game?"

Marik perked up immediately, his rage at the thief already forgotten. "That's right, I never finished turning on the computer!" He ran back to the machine and flung himself in his office chair, eager to begin. "_Envelop my face with your glow, so that to YouTube I can go! Unlock your files from deep within, so that together we can look at funny pictures of cats! Take me to the desktop as I call your name: WINGED PC OF RA!_"

Smothering a pained moan, Bakura sank back onto the couch. He shut his eyes again and dropped his special kitten on his face to give him an extra layer of protection against light. It was no use staying angry with Marik—frankly, he was surprised it had taken him this long to find Mr. Snuffles.

_That's just one less secret to keep from him,_ he sighed, tucking his arms behind his head. "What the..." Pulling one arm out, he sat up a bit so the cat would fall off and he could peer at the strange item in his hand. "A paper umbrella...? Oh, bloody hell. I don't even want to know." He flicked the toothpick away and resumed his position.

As Marik chattered away behind him about his vampire computer game, Bakura allowed his thoughts to drift. The night prior had not been a rare occurrence. In fact, it was a near weekly experience. He would get mad at Marik, leave, be followed, they'd drink away what little brain cells they had left, have mini-adventure on the way home, and wake up the next morning picking up right where they left off. They were like a very dysfunctional married couple.

_Is this what things are going to be like from now on? _he wondered. Strangely, the thought didn't repulse him. They were dysfunctional, yes. But as long as Marik continued to deny his sexuality, Bakura would have to be content with what he had now. Marik's love was the one thing he couldn't steal—he had to earn it.

_It sure as hell better be worth it, _he thought grumpily, a slight frown tugging at his lips. Marik tried his patience daily. There was a reason he went out drinking so often, after all. But the thought of not having that bronze midriff in his life was not even remotely appealing to him, so he figured it had to be worth waiting for. It would just take patience, and several more hungover mornings before things might change. He was willing to wait.

"Hey, Bakura!"

"What is it, Marik?" he growled sleepily, not bothering to sit up.

"Bail bonds, Bakura! Ahahahaha!"

"Shut up, Marik."

* * *

Well, there you have it. Was it silly? Yes. Was it amusing? Hopefully so. Was it worth reviewing? That's for you to decide.


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